


veterans of batman-killing

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types
Genre: ArkhamVerse, Bittersweet, Diners, Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham Isn't Always Horrible, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Arkham Knight, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight, Why Did I Write This?, arkham knight's militia is mentioned, bro i was in a Mood writing this, militia!reader, romance is hinted at kind of, this is so self-indulgent someone end me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 16:10:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22613620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Halloween was a few months ago. Since then, the Arkham Knight's militia is officially disbanded, dead, or locked up. The Arkham Knight himself disappeared without a trace.The story of one of the few stragglers who escaped, and decided to restart a new life.
Relationships: Arkham Knight (Batman: Arkham)/Reader, Arkham Knight/Arkham Knight's Militia (Batman: Arkham), Jason Todd/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 73





	veterans of batman-killing

**A/N: oneshot**

In all honesty, it had looked like a botched and downright-impossible job from the start.

You could say that with utmost dignity and confidence, even if you weren’t Gotham-born and raised or had any previous experience to base that on. Actually, you were from Portland. But that didn’t change what you  _ did _ know—the nationwide news of Gotham’s more insane plans didn’t go unnoticed by you, and besides, the fable was fun to keep up with friends when you were still in high school and joking around about the more trivial matters of life.

Batman was unbeatable.

For the most part.

The sentiment  _ for the most part _ had been the only driving factor to ultimately opt in for one of the craziest seven months of your life, and afterwards you regretted it heavily. Of course, you’d been right—even if that was arguable—but that didn’t mean you were proud to be right.

Guilt had kept you in Gotham.

That, and you’d been too scared to get in touch with any… associates out of fear that they’d ratted you out and the police would be knocking at your door any day now, ready to take you to a supermax prison for treason against your country and a citywide act of terrorism.

The other guys who had once marched beside you had suffered that fate. At the end of the night, it was a game of miraculously avoiding the wrath of Deathstroke and the Gotham City Police Department; something most failed. You could guess half your unit was put behind bars that night, and that hadn’t been the worst of it. After, when the city had cleared, law enforcement and the military had come in, FBI and multiple U.S. intelligence agencies on their tail, and demanded they hand the men over. GCPD, being such a small albeit courageous unit in comparison, had no choice but to comply.

Most of the militia had ended up with life sentences, hefty community service or, for the worst of the bunch, death row.

You could not say, with utmost dignity  _ or _ confidence, what punishment you would’ve received.

But you found your niche in Gotham—it ended up being cooking, and actually helping others. Eased your spirit somewhat, standing behind a greasy little kitchen of one of the diners set up on Founders’, just an odd three blocks down from the former HQ. You enjoyed cooking more than you realised, whether it was the odd burger or a salad or just about anything. It made you happy, and it was rewarding to get paid for something you wanted to do.

No one was born a soldier.

Not even you.

After a good few months on the job—it was deep in the middle of an icy winter for Gotham now—you started to learn the people of Gotham. From the stories you’d been told, you expected it to be a shithole of rude people and uncaring souls, each as bleak and dreary as the next. Of course, you were surprised at the brash but well-meaning demeanour of the head chef, and the kind-eyed snark of one of the waitresses, and how some people joked in a sad kind of way but still made do with tipping you and not being complete assholes to you.

You learned that the people of Gotham… actually weren’t so bad.

You wondered if they’d treat you the same if they knew that you’d first come here with the hostile event to take over their beloved city and obliterate it under the command of your well-paying boss.

About that. You never did get paid that money.

When you’d stolen an obscene amount of money stashed in hidden compartments in an apartment complex, you’d felt so bad afterwards that once your salary started giving you proper benefits, you began mailing back money to those you’d taken from.

To some extent, all that do-good attitude made you feel a little less horrible about everything you’d done. It didn’t erase everything and you sure as hell would never get rid of that nagging in the pit of your chest that weighed you down, but it felt good to choose to be kind to others.

Of course, you couldn’t expect your demons to just stay subdued and let you move on with your life. Not after everything you’d done.

“Chicken burger with coffee, black,” was called through the small access hatch as the note with specifics slid on the smooth surface. You were quick to grab it, beginning to work away at the kitchen while Pablo, the other cook, worked away on his end. Your eyes caught the corner of the note—black coffee, large. Your eyes flickered to the time.

“Who the hell has coffee this late?” You murmured, squinting slightly. Checking the time had also reminded you that your shift was ending in half an hour.

“You forget some folks work night shifts, Tesla,” Pablo called over his shoulder, having somehow heard you over the commotion of the diner. Tonight was busy—like every night. Everyone wanted a nice dinner, a good warm meal they didn’t have to shop for before they headed home and rested to get up in the morning again.

Tesla was the nickname Pablo had granted you after you’d fixed the fuse box and almost gotten electrocuted doing so. From then on, you were also the techie of the diner—that, and you’d come in with the nickname in the first place. Kind of odd but convenient that Pablo had come up with the same name as you’d adopted from the early days in the militia, which eventually dropped.

“You’re a blessing for working late, Pablo,” Christie—older lady at the till—called back, clearly having overhead his sentiment. That was the thing about working in a close-quarters and cozy diner in Gotham; everyone was constantly curious, and it was like living in a very big family which always knew everything about everyone. Pablo let out a raspy laugh, and you shook your head with half a grin as you lightly toasted the bun of the burger.

Folks of Gotham—like you said, not so bad.

Not quite the same as the people you’d gotten to know back then—you kind of missed Pete’s quick retorts sometimes, and Andrew’s childish whining accompanied by Francis’ gloomy teenager persona. But it was still good company, and it made you feel good working here.

Loading the burger onto the plate with a serving of fries and scooping up the mug of piping hot coffee which burned against your palm, you slid them across the little counter space, clicking the bell. You were about to turn away to take the next order when Christie halted you.

“Tesla, I hate to be a nuisance, dear, but could’ya take that order? Sara and Lindsay are barely juggling the crowd right now.”

“Sure thing, Christie.” You patted your palms on your white apron with slight grease stains, trying to fix your hair to look somewhat presentable for the general public before moving through the swinging doors separating the main till from the kitchen. “Where’d you want the order again—?”

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes locking in on the corner booth.

Blue eyes, staring back at you with the same intensity.

Here’s the thing about your whole time with the militia. You were a pretty ambitious kid, and of course that meant tearing your way through the ranks. Not in a way that would make you memorable enough for someone in lockup to bring you up, but enough for you to have begun working with the infamous commander of your army. Mostly just group missions, nothing very special.

But you did get to know him. The Arkham Knight.

You… learned a lot.

And now, he was sitting there, in the corner booth of the diner you were working in.

_ Out of all the places… _

It was a miracle you could recognise him by face—the pointed stare would’ve likely given it away for you regardless. The only reason you could was… uh. Classified. He liked that word a lot, and would spew it whenever anyone asked anything substantial about him or his life.  _ Classified _ .

Where’d you grow up, sir?  _ Classified _ . What are you working on, sir?  _ Classified _ . Are you actually a robot, sir?  _ Classified _ .

Okay, maybe the last one was never said out loud. But it was a unanimous question everyone had been dying to ask. He surely didn’t  _ act _ human back then.

And here he was. Human. Alive. Blue eyes. Looking right at you.

“... Tesla? Tesla!” You blinked rapidly, eyes snapping over to Christie madly waving her hand in front of your face. “You deaf, kid? Sara’s already taken the order.” You blinked again, the room seeming to sway before you. “Kid, you alright? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Your heart was beating in your ears. Suddenly, the room felt a little bit too hot for you and this uniform was a little bit too tight. “I think… I think I need some air,” you murmured, and that was the last thing you said before you were stumbling back through the swinging doors and to the back of the kitchen, barely registering Pablo’s bewildered remark and moving, moving, moving until suddenly your fingers were wrapping around the heavy handle leading outside and you were staggering out and the cold air hit you like a freight truck.

Cold. Coldcoldcold.

Venezuela had been awful, and humid. Nothing to prepare you for how awful and cold Gotham was.

A slight shiver escaped your parted lips, breath visible. A street lamp stood a few feet away, casting a gloomy and warm-toned shadow over the alleyway leading to the back door of the diner. You wrapped your arms around yourself, goosebumps rising on your skin and freezing your previously-warm fingers into a scalding cool temperature.

A long breath in. You glanced up, the streetlamp illuminating snowflakes slowly falling from the sky and coating the alleyways in a sad sludge. The last time you’d seen snow—proper, outside-the-cities snow—was in Portland.

Home.

Well, now this was your home. Even if you were still coming to terms with it.

You released your breath, shoulders sagging.

You didn’t know what came over you. But suddenly it had felt like you couldn’t breathe, like your heart was going to explode, like the Bat himself would chase you down for your sins and you’d been running for hours. Everything had gone hazy in those few seconds you locked eyes and relived a thousand memories.

You used to call him boss. Sir. Commander. Knight. Every name of respect that was possibly acceptable. And now he sat there—without that title and the implications of it—a mere few feet behind that door. There was so much that was wrong with that, and so much that didn’t sit right with the prospect of never seeing him in that helmet and with that voice modulator ever again.

“You’re still here.”

You jerked sideways, eyes flickering to your left and heart leaping to your throat once more as you caught his eyes yet again. You struggled to regain your composure, mouth dry and tongue feeling rather leaden.

From here, it looked like a soft halo was cast around him from the street lamp.

Dark hair, falling over his eyes and just slightly waved like you recalled—less messy, though. Less helmet hair. A deep maroon hood was drawn over most of his head, concealing half of his face aside from the piercing eyes. He looked… big, just like you recalled. His frame had always been imposing, a symbol of a remorseless preparation to kill and maim as seen needed. Executor of a twisted form of justice, no matter how just it may have seemed for the sum of money at the time.

Now, there was no more bravado. It was just him, with slightly hunched yet still broad shoulders. So different from the man you’d gotten to know, yet somehow the same.

You remembered how you’d tried to forget his face, how you had promised that in some desperate attempt at a plea for him to spare your life. Every morning, you swore you’d end the day with forgetting how he looked under the helmet.

Every night, you would remember.

“Where’re the others?” Were his next words, and only now did you realise how oddly young he sounded without the modulator. Around your age, maybe. Definitely not like a snarky and vengeful commander, and more like a young adult struggling to find his place in the world. You knew the feeling all too well.

“Like, from the—the night?” You swallowed, trying to gather your frazzled nerves. “Pretty sure most of them are in—in, uh, jail. Or, uh, wherever. I dunno. Cut all contact the moment Deathstroke took over.”

“And you’re not.”

It was a question, worded as a statement. More of the obvious, yet he sounded dubious above all.

“I—well, clearly not.” You cleared your throat, biting back the habitual  _ sir _ before you got murdered in some back alley of Gotham.

“How?”

“Don’t you see?” The corners of your lips twitched, brows scrunching. “I’m not—I don’t do that anymore. I do—” You paused. Why was this so difficult? Why were your nerves on fire? Were you meant to feel this awkward about seeing the Knight again? Did you even know his  _ name _ ? “I’m trying to do good. I went clean. Got a job here.” You gestured awkwardly. “It’s like the old me never even existed.”

“It doesn’t change what you—what we did.” He stepped forward, although tentatively. His words were a bit less tentative.

“No. It doesn’t.” You’d admitted that long ago. You were not about to have another therapy session for yourself. “But it’s better to start doing good than to continue doing bad.”

He halted for a moment, brows scrunching. He looked. Conflicted. He looked older when he thought, when he worried. Before, that startled expression had made him look awfully young, too young to have even considered taking on the mantle of the Arkham Knight. Finally, “Did you ever think it would’ve worked?” You raised your brows, heat rising up your neck. He cleared his throat quickly. “The plan, I mean. Take over Gotham. Kill B—him. Did you ever believe it?”

There was no safe way out of this. You couldn’t just turn away, not after everything that had happened. Not after that heavy a question. “No,” you said honestly. He glanced away. “We planned well, don’t—don’t get me wrong. But at the end of the day, we were.” You didn’t know how to word it. “We were killing a myth. Urban legend. Whatever. And that’s not… that’s not what he is— _ was _ . He was just a man. And you—”

He looked back sharply, eyes gleaming. Now you were done for. You were already generally an awkward person, or in the very least rambly. Let alone when he was asking so much of you, and there weren’t enough words in the world to explain what you really wanted to say to him.

“You’re also just a man. You’re not—the Arkham Knight’s also just a myth. Or at least not real. It’s not  _ you _ . You’re… you’re just you. Which means you never needed to kill a man.” You pursed your lips, eyes shifting to your feet which were toeing the muddy snow. “You just needed to kill the myth.  _ Myths. _ Both of them.”

Silence. From both of you. You were almost too scared to breathe by this point, and shivers had fully enveloped your body by now. No doubt your nose was a bright red from the cold, with how your breaths were coming out in short, visible puffs.

Finally, he spoke again, drawing your attention. “I think… I think I needed to hear that.” He swallowed, glancing to the side. With some light from the street lamp illuminating his face, you swore he looked a shade pinker than previously. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted. “I really am. I should’ve—we should’ve helped. Done something. It didn’t have to end that way.”

“S’not your fault, Tesla,” he said, softer than before.

Some part of you knew that he had never really been quite angry. Not fully, at least.

He was just sad, and broken. Hurt by this hurtful city, and still healing from his scars. The distinct  _ J _ branded into his cheek told you as much, and made you wonder just how much there had been to your former boss that none of your comrades and you had ever known or found out about. How many stories had gone untold? How much had he suffered? What had led to Halloween?

You’d never find out the answers, you knew as much. You’d have to shut that chapter of your life without getting closure for some things, you supposed.

“Thank you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything. You were a good boss.”

He nodded, though his expression was what you could only describe as bittersweet. By this point, your teeth were practically chattering with how cold you were, and how snowflakes had thawed on your bare arms, cold water droplets rolling down your skin and seeping into the white of your uniform. “Take care. I’ll be sticking around.”

You nodded, holding back the burning in the corners of your eyes and biting back the shiver tearing through your nerves. “Counting on it.”

He walked out of the alleyway, disappearing around the corner. Back to the way to the diner. There was still a meal waiting for him, after all. And a whole future devoid of the past. Clean slate, everyone moved on even without all the answers.

You didn’t know what to make of his remark. But it filled you with some odd sense of hope and determination, which was what compelled you to move back into the warm and open arms of the diner and brush the stray snowflakes out of your hair and off your clothes. An odd sense of feeling like everything was going to turn out alright, and that you’d manage in the long run.

Odd sense.

But a good sense.

You also didn’t know what he meant by sticking around. It could mean anything, by this point in time.

You were open to any and all interpretations to it.

A small, but warm smile graced your face as you greeted Pablo and Christie, heading back to work.

Maybe you won’t forget all of the past.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Honestly why did i write this it's so pointless but it was Needed,,,,
> 
> hi, I promise I'm working on another chapter of TLoG! I just needed to get this out of my system as a quick boost to keep writing. Of course, I'm always a sucker for Arkhamverse storylines, so here we are in yet another post-Arkham storyline. It's just a oneshot of the life reader leads after they left the militia, which is kind of random but like here we are! Hope you guys enjoy and feedback is always welcome. Thank you!!


End file.
